


21

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [39]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Also feat. Curufin's brothers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birthday Fluff, DWMP verse, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 17:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8542186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: Curufin turns 21, and there are differing ideas on how best to celebrate it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon who reminded me that DWMP!Curufin’s birthday was coming up (today, in fact), and who suggested fluff might be an excellent birthday surprise. Side bar: I am. really impressed you remembered his birthday (I had to look it up, and I _created it_.)
> 
> He might heartily object, but I gotchu, anon. Here’s some fluff, if only to really annoy him as he deserves.
> 
> Happy 21st birthday, ya little rat bastard.

It was the most busily they’d seen Celegorm write since he took the SATs for the third time. For a while the four of them just watched in fascination as he scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting on a legal pad stolen from Maedhros, an unlikely blot of ink on the end of his nose.

“Okay so for sure Ulmo’s, that’s a classic, especially for the newly legal. Let’s close out the night there. But first we should hit up that place – what’s the name –” Celegorm looked up, frowning and tapping the end of his pen against his lips. “You know, the one with the pool tables. And that bartender with the incredible breasts.”

His brothers looked at him blankly. Celegorm sighed. “It’s the one that serves popcorn instead of nuts. Come on. The one where Mae lost his public restroom virginity.”

“Oh, the High King,” said Maedhros, and then, “Wait. How - ”

“ _Please_.” Celegorm wrote down the bar name. “But thanks, that’s the one. Where else do we need to go?” He paused, sucking the end of his pen and giving Maglor time to cut in.

“Well, if you’ve quite satisfied your dive-bar needs, we _have_ to take Curvo somewhere with actual class.” Maglor looked at Curufin conspiratorially, as one marooned soul in a sea of mundanity to another. Curufin stared blankly back at him until Maglor gave up and looked away. “I’m thinking of this whiskey bar – it’s an alt-brew speakeasy, technically – where you can’t get in without a password.” Maglor tossed his head. “But I have the password.” It didn’t elicit the impressed murmurs he seemed to expect.

“What is it?” asked Caranthir, when Celegorm made no move to add this suggestion to his notes. “The password.”

“You haven’t been vetted,” said Maglor sanctimoniously, “so it is not for me to divulge and thus ruin the system.”

“I’ll hear it when we go, you realize.”

“Not if I whisper it to the bouncer.” Maglor ran a hand over his hair. “Anyway, put the Red Window Sash on the list. That’s not a name, mind, just a description. It doesn’t actually have a name.”

“I guess we do need some experiences to make Curvo appreciate the numbing effects of alcohol.” Celegorm shook his head and added it to his list. “Where is it?”

“Down that alley behind Walmart. The door is behind the third dumpster on the left.”

Celegorm, Maedhros, and Caranthir looked at him, all with near identical expressions of resigned disgust.

“It’s not _my_  fault you’re quotidian as shit,” said Maglor, and ignored them.  

They were on to debating the order of events five minutes later, so that when Curufin slipped away from the party planning activities, no one noticed. He paused out of sight on the stairs, long enough to make silent exasperation faces for Huan’s benefit, who was dozing on the landing and apparently cared as little about Curufin turning 21 as Curufin himself did.

Then he ducked into his room, locked the door behind him, and was just about to drop onto the bed in exhaustion when he drew up sharply to keep himself from collapsing onto Finrod.

“Hallo,” said Finrod from Curufin’s bed, looking like he wouldn’t mind being collapsed upon.

“What are you doing here?”

“Many happy returns of the day.” Finrod sat up and swung his legs around. He was holding a small envelope of what Curufin could tell was very high-quality paper, and either it or Finrod himself smelt faintly of lavender. “I hope your birthday has been treating you well.”

“Oh god,” said Curufin, sinking down into his desk chair. “Are you here to add your drunken debauchery location of choice to the list? Because I refuse to go clubbing, I refuse to go anywhere there’s a DJ, I will only endure sticky floors under _protest_ , and –”

“Actually, I’m here to abduct you,” said Finrod.

“What?” Curufin blinked. “Gosh, my father was right about you.”

Finrod ignored this. “I know the sticky floors and dubstep are very tempting – ”

Curufin groaned.

“ – but operating under the hypothesis that you might prefer an alternative, I have devised a means of escape. For you, at least, and I hope I will be allowed to join.” Finrod smiled, and Curufin smiled back, a reflex he’d found no reliable way to suppress. “But! Even if you would prefer to be alone, I shall still be your accessory to escape and get you safely to solitude.” Finrod got to his feet and lifted the curtain. “My car is out front, stocked with a variety of items for whatever contingency – three different knits of sweaters, to start – ”

“You have the weirdest priorities when it comes to packing.”

“ - I also have one bottle of a very expensive and sophisticated Syrah for you to sample – remember, that one your father mentioned – as well as one bottle of that cheap, sweet, crap rosé you _actually_ like. I have a bag of popcorn, salted; a bag of popcorn, cheesed; and a bag of chocolate chips, hellish dark. I have secured the car from infiltration, provided suitable soundtracks, and can ensure there are _no flowers_ anywhere on the premises, along with absolutely zero sentimentality.”

“What about that card in your hand?” said Curufin, eyeing it.

Finrod hid it behind his back. “Just a _little_ bit of sentimentality. You can scoff at it after, I promise! But you’ll have to do it whilst we flee.” He checked his watch. “If we leave now, your brothers won’t notice you’re gone until we’re one town over with our phones off.”

Curufin opened his mouth, unable to locate a thing to say, and Finrod took the opportunity to steal a kiss.

Curufin allowed it.

They crept down the stairs, Finrod’s hand on Curufin’s low back and both of them on tiptoes like children in a pantomime. Huan raised his head to watch them go, his tail beating softly against the floor. But it seemed that Finrod had charmed him like he charmed everyone else, for the dog did not make any further noise.

Curufin peeked around the corner of the staircase: in the kitchen, Maglor and Caranthir sounded like they were coming close to blows over the technical definition of a brandy, and Maedhros was hissing something about something that was ‘ _not_ a gloryhole’ to Celegorm.

Finrod was laughing soundlessly at his side, and Curufin tugged his hand sharply. “ _Go_!”

He slid into the passenger side of Finrod’s Volvo, discovering a bag of snacks at his feet next to a small square envelope marked “Curufinwë’s Unsentimental Birthday Mix”, and despite all his instincts, completely lost the ability to say anything biting and cynical about it.

Finrod turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear. He paused before he pulled away from the curb, turning to Curufin. “Is there anything else your heart desires?” His smile was gently suggestive, but Curufin had his answer ready.

“The full karaoke story.”

Finrod hesitated only a moment before his smile was back. “Okay,” he said. “But only _after_ the wine.”

Curufin grinned in triumph. “Hah! I love you.” He immediately clapped a hand over Finrod’s mouth. “Just an expression, Felagund, don’t let it go to your head.”

Finrod removed his hand carefully, turned it palm up, and kissed it.

“Happy birthday, Curvo.” And then, fervently, “Oh, motherfucker, your brothers are coming. I hope your seatbelt’s buckled.”

The Volvo peeled out, leaving Celegorm and Maglor watching with narrowed eyes from the front steps.

“Well,” said Celegorm, after a moment, “I guess we’ll just have to keep doing what we did all those years he couldn’t come out with us: get drunk and TP his room.”

“It’s the most festive option,” said Maglor meditatively, and turned and went back inside to wrestle Caranthir for the brandy.


End file.
